


Playing Favourites

by joannabelle



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Buttsex, Humour, I'm Sorry Tolkien, M/M, Orcs, Poor Gothmog, angbang, as usual, throw me in the trash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-12
Updated: 2015-07-12
Packaged: 2018-04-08 22:21:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4322949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joannabelle/pseuds/joannabelle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the battle of Dagor-nuin-Giliath, everyone is pretty sure that Melkor and Mairon are laying together.  On the sparring grounds, Gothmog tries to dispel some rumours.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing Favourites

**Author's Note:**

  * For [crackinthecup](https://archiveofourown.org/users/crackinthecup/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not own, and frankly as you can see below that is a blessing.  
> Rating: Explicit  
> Warnings: Mairon takes it up the butt.  
> Notes: I cannot believe I wrote this shit. Dedicate to LeMasque31 because she knows what she did.

“Well it is no secret who his favourite is, Balgir.”  
  
The axe swung through the air with a swoosh.   
  
Caught off-guard, Balgir the Orc ducked at the last second.  
  
“Who?” He asked, confused.  
  
“Lieutenant _Mairon_ , you nitwit.”  
  
The axe swung again. This time, it grazed Balgir along the cheek, as the Orc miscalculated by the fraction of a second.  
  
“It is impossible not to notice!” Bolg yelled from the other end of the handle, rearing up for another move. “Are you _blind_?”   
  
The jibe stung, worse so than the pinching of Balgir’s cheek – they all knew that Balgir had lost both his eyes in the last Elf war.   
  
Glancing up from the polishing of a battle-worn axe, Gothmog tutted from the sidelines. “Bolg, watch your mouth. You would use to pay more attention to your aim.”  
  
Looking back down, the Balrog wrung the cloth harder, trying to coax off a smudge of black Orc-blood that clung crisp upon the steel tip.  
  
Through his inattention, a small commotion rose between the ranks as a few more Orcs joined in to the squabble of slandering the Kingdom’s chief lieutenant.  
  
“My Lord,” A war-torn Orc broke after a few moments, standing in the middle of the pit and rounding on Gothmog with a face shining of malice: “Is it true they lay together?”  
  
From around the training ground, there was a smatter of poorly concealed laughter, and an unsuccessful shush from Balgir who was still nursing his cheek.  
  
Undeterred, the warn-torn Orc continued, spurred on by the reaction:  
  
“Is it true that Lieutenant Mairon takes it like a little whore?”  
  
“Well I would not be surprised!” Bolg piped up, abandoning his axe for the far more interesting subject of insulting Lieutenant Mairon behind his back. “Have you seen the looks he shoots at our Lord when he thinks he is not looking?  It’s sickening.”  
  
There was a murmur of agreement that hinted rather close to a salacious chortle, and Gothmog sighed, again, in response.  
  
“Bolg, enough.” The Balrog captain reproached, from over the head of the crusted axe, as he decided to dispel this conversation before it went any further.   
  
Truth be told, he was fairly sure Lord Melkor and Lieutenant Mairon _were_ laying together, but this was something the Orcs need not be too aware.  
  
Though, he did afford, everyone seemed already far too aware of Lieutenant Mairon’s rather _clear_ enchantment.  But, still, they did not need to know whether their Lord … _reciprocated_ such matters.  
  
No …  
  
It would not be great for their image.  
  
In Gothmog’s own personal opinion, Dark Lords should be _impervious_ to this sort of thing – this ‘affection’.  There was just no place for it in a kingdom like Angband. And thought it was quite clear to Gothmog that the two in question were _not_ , in fact, immune, _he_ still planned to continue keeping that information from the legion for as long as he could think up a viable excuse.  
  
Starting now:  
  
“This conversation has gone on long enough, and it is highly inappropriate – especially during spars.” He started, staring sternly over at the group, and twisting the axe ever so subtly in a threat as he rose to stride into the centre of the pit.   
  
“Know this, Orcs: such feelings are far too trivial for one such as a Vala.” Gothmog stared around at the team with a look that, he hoped, conveyed earnest: “Our Lord Melkor would not concern himself with such matters.”  
  
Balgir lowered his axe, as an expression of self-righteousness spread over his eye-less face and he nodded in accord – one of the few.  
  
“What you must remember is this, Bolg,” Gothmog continued, turning with a growl to chief instigator of the kerfuffle: “Lord Melkor is not of mortal blood.  As such, he does not subscribe to those such weak and delicate … _impulses_.”  
  
Gothmog took a breath:  
  
“It would simply be uncouth.”  
  
“Oh, of course.” Bolg replied, in rather blatant disbelief.  The warn-torn Orc on the other side of the pit failed to stifle a vindictive snort.  
  
Yet Gothmog left the comment where it stood.  
  
“Back to work.” He ordered, and turned back, with distaste, towards his axe.   
  
It was not like they would ever find out, anyway.  
  
Gothmog again surveyed the team, running the worn cloth along the blade and leaning back against the metal cage of the pits, as the Orcs returned, begrudgingly, to their poorly spars.  
  
“And you had better master that move, Bolg.” The Balrog advised, with the raising of his brow, as Bolg’s shoulders slumped gently in defeat: “Do remember, we are presenting tomorrow.”  
  


* * *

  
“Master, we need to go over these files – something is just not sitting right …”  
  
Thick boots clicked upon the tiles. Lieutenant Mairon paced the length of the War Room meeting table, a scowl upon his face.  His hair, this day, hung in a long delicate braid down his back, the glistening lines of a thin metal chain interwoven between the locks.  
  
Melkor slouched back in his elf-skin chair, eyeing the Maia’s behind as it swayed down the room.  
  
“Is this why you dragged me in here so early?” He complained, and moved to stack his feet upon the desk, enjoying with a grin the scathing glare Sauron shot back in his direction at the act. The Maia missed not a thing.  
  
“What? They are clean...” He justified, glancing down at his steel-capped boots.  
  
Well, they _were_ clean, anyway.   
  
Probably. … At some point.  
  
With a smudge of Elf-blood _smearing_ across the table, Melkor rearranged his feet, crossing his arms in the traces of a huff. He regarded with blandness the Lieutenant, who had turned, now, and was perched with his hands on his hips in the centre of the room.  
  
“Well?  Go on.” Melkor ordered, slouching back further into the seat. “We have only an hour, and I am near to hunger.”  
  
Mairon rolled his eyes. “Valar do not need to eat.” He snipped. But regardless, the amber-haired Maia strutted forward to the midpoint of the long War Room table, where stretched a small stack of parchments that contained his report on their latest unit drill.  
  
“It is the cavalry lines, Master.” He began, his face breaking into a scowl. “I do not believe they will hold out for long enough to buy us time to filter into the mines undetected.”  
  
Huffing a long-suffering, displeased _sigh_ , Melkor rearranged himself and rose from the chair, swishing firmly down the room to join Mairon at the reports.  
  
Across the pages, he noted with displeasure, Mairon’s curly scrawl was spun so tight there was barely any room to read the letters between the bleeding of the ink. Mairon had filled every square inch of the parchment with detail, down to the numbers of cavalry required in each area of the highly detailed map.  
  
Melkor sighed again. He was just really not in the mood; this had been going on for seven months.  To be entirely honest, he was well aware both they and the army were tiring of the plan – not that this ever stopped his Lieutenant, something of which Melkor still rather approved.   
  
Mairon’s _hair_ looked nice, on that note – and the Vala afforded himself a sniff.  Mmm, yes. Not that he would ever pay the egotistical Lieutenant such an _overt_ , adulating piece of praise.  
  
No: as it were – he went about it sideways.  
  
“Hm.” Melkor rumbled, leaning in over the top of Mairon’s bent and fussing head. “You have something in your hair.”  
  
Mairon lurched and swung round in a fright, his hand tangling fast into his braid.  "What, a bug?" He questioned, eyes widening. But Melkor cut him off –  
  
"A _scent_." The Vala ground, as again he leaned in, tipping ever closer to Mairon’s startled, calming face:  
  
"Like cardamom.” He began, again tasting the linger upon the air: “Or pepper."  
  
It was, certainly, not a question.  
  
But in a way, it also rather was.  
  
Curious, Melkor dipped his nose into the top of Mairon’s forehead, his skin touching light upon the crown. With a stray hand he bent, caught at the elbow, to card cool long black fingers through tufts of amber hair. His hand brushed at Mairon’s nape.  
  
The Maia had gone oddly silent through Melkor’s swoop, before he uttered with a clip – :   
  
"I am afraid I do not know of what you now refer."  
  
But this – of course – was yet a simple, curdled _lie_.  
  
As the scent to which Melkor drove his focus was an oil – a _tincture_ , if you will – and Mairon had stolen it from the stocks.  
  
It smelled of cinnamon stick and peppercorns, a scent he knew too well the Vala loved. It was a heady scent, laced with spice – both thralling and sweetened, and yet undoubtedly, undeniably somewhat _coy_. He had run it through his hair that morning – smoothed it through the thin curling of his locks in an amber twist that saw his fingers dampen down the skin of his own neck –  
  
Melkor, however, need not be made aware.  
  
The scent, he knew, would drive the Vala wild.  
  
And as he felt Melkor take in another deep, drawing breath over his head, Mairon swallowed down the grin.  
  
He straightened the parchments ready to discuss, as Melkor lips bent down to brush against his nape.  
  
"Stop that, would you?" Mairon shooed, a rogue arm waving behind him as he tried in vain to peel Melkor off.  He bat the Vala’s head up off his neck and, huffing in a show, slid further down the table.  
  
Though perhaps (he later supposed) he moved not quite far enough away – for Melkor followed without hesitation.  
  
“Come now, Mairon, you need not act so coy.”  
  
Undeterred as always, the Vala was soon again at his ear.  
  
“Forget those for a minute.” Melkor breathed, and Mairon squeezed shut the widening of his eyes. The Vala’s fingers plied the parchments from his hand, but Mairon held fast, he held strong –  
  
“We cannot,” He argued with a less than forceful breath. “We need to address them before the meeting …”  
  
But he trailed off, as the cool tip of Melkor’s nose was again pressed into the warm skin of his nape, and the Vala lay a heavy, stilting _kiss_ into the juncture between his shoulder and his throat.  Mairon tensed.  The spot tingled in Melkor’s wake and the Vala pressed in, sealing his chest against Mairon’s back.  
  
“Let us play a _game_.”  The words were puffed out in a mist.  
  
Mairon could not suppress his shudder – but loosely, still, he shook his head.  
  
"No..." His fingers clenched again onto the parchments.  Yet, it just all seemed so tempting...  
  
"What game...?" He murmured, squeezing closed his eyes.    
  
Melkor grinned.  
  
They were treading a fine line here; and the paperwork hung loose but imposing at Mairon’s front.  
  
He needed to focus.  
  
Yet Melkor's lips captured the lobe of his right ear, and licked upon the fold.  Mairon felt the arms tighten around his waist, as heat pumped down his neck.  
  
And then Melkor did the one thing he needed to seal the Maia’s fate:  
  
He issued a challenge.  
  
"I propose to thee, Mairon, only this. That the _first_ –" the Vala breathed, with a kiss upon his jaw, “to come–” a trailing finger down his nape, and the Vala clenched his hand into Mairon’s hair and spit the words out on a breath: "shall _lose_."  
  
And Melkor tipped, and dug his teeth into the corded muscle upon the side of Mairon’s neck.  
  
Oh, _fuck_.  
  
"That … that is hardly fair." Mairon reasoned, reassembling his thoughts as he twisted in Melkor's grip and bit back with a breathless sneer: "For we both know I have far more self control."  
  
Melkor rumbled into a laugh.  
  
“Ay: _cheek_.” The Vala retorted, but leaned in further still, nimbling his fingers under the rise of Mairon’s shirt: “And yet, Precious, I do not recall a single instance in which you have been able to hold _on_.”  
  
The barb stung, as the burn of Melkor’s words tingled in a salve across Mairon’s skin – and he, in turn, could not quell an outraged, disbelieving snort.  
  
“Pah!”  How delusional.  
  
As _usual_ , that was.   
  
For Melkor did not even have enough patience to see his own _battle_ strategies through to the end.  
  
_Oh_ , Mairon thought to himself, as he suppressed a strange, foreboding shudder, _this is going to be easy_.  
  
"You know what?” He voiced in supposition, spinning around to grab Melkor firm around the neck: “ _You’re on_."  
  
And he crushed their mouths together, partly in an effort to smother Melkor's second mocking, derisive laugh.  
  
Mairon was going to win this challenge with _ease_.  
  
Within seconds, Melkor had him pinned against the table.   
  
“What shall the winner receive?” The Vala asked him, between the stifling, continued kiss.  The words gusted out across Mairon slickened lips, as the Maia searched frantic for a reply.  
  
“Bloody basic _pride_.” He cut, after a moment’s pause; and then, with the eagerness of a loose Finwëan wench, he tangled his arms into his Master’s waist-long ebony hair and reasserted their frantic, biting kiss.  
  
A sleuthing of tongues and the peppered gasps of a wanton Maia later, Mairon found himself twisted with his back jammed up against the side of the table, as Melkor sucked a welt the size of a Silmaril into his collar.  
  
Ohh _Mandos_. Not _there_.  
  
He panted, canting his hips. Behind him, there was a crunch, as Mairon inadvertently leant upon his parchments, the grains of the wood scraping, coarse, under his palms.  
  
Melkor tasted of charred cedar and the crimson tang of blood, and the flavour stretched through Mairon’s limbs like a poison.  The scent hovered underneath his tongue and plied him loose where stood, as with each breathless, knotting kiss he breathed more of the Vala down his throat.  After moments, dizzy, Mairon leaned more of his weight into Melkor’s chest.  Against the broad thickness of his Master’s muscle he sunk, as the heavy insistence of Melkor’s bulge pressed up into his stomach.  
  
Already feeling far, far too aroused, Mairon chose not to waste any of their time.   
  
Pushing his hips forward he began a slow and rolling rhythm.  The movement rocked his abdomen firm against the growing outline of Melkor’s erection, as Mairon canted his hips against the thickness of Melkor’s thigh. For Mairon knew _this_ tempo clearer than the image of his own face – the thick, courting stroke that undid the mightiest and most powerful of all the Valar, and made him gasp under Mairon’s tricky hands.   
  
If Melkor had a weakness it was a smooth, trickled _beat_ , and it gravelled like the deep tones of a cello.  
  
He thrust his hips, as the mingled sounds of a gasp misted along the air.  Their tongues brushed, and Mairon tipped back his head. The hem of Melkor’s winter cloak ruffled at his fingers, a black stained char of linen taut underneath his hands.  
  
Breaking the kiss, the Vala shifted, and began to part Mairon’s thighs with the probing of his knee.  
  
And against Melkor’s sliding lips, Mairon curled into a smile.  
  
“Master,” He gasped, tempering the word so it broke breathless from his lips. “ _Yes_. _Please_.”  
  
With a sliding arch, he tensed under Melkor’s arms.  Letting go of the Vala’s lips Mairon tipped back his head, breaking his mouth open in a closed-eye, silent moan.  
  
Unwittingly, Melkor growled, and again plunged forward, near _tearing_ the back of Mairon’s blue silk robe with a fist.  Mairon felt himself jar into the side of the table, as the wooden edge smashed into his back.  The pain wrung through him in a jolt, and he heard himself gasp, this time, in earnest, as his cock sprung in a rather noticeable twitch against Melkor’s leg.  
  
Dauntless, he continued his beat, pressing himself ever tighter against Melkor’s front and moving his arms around the knotting muscle of the Vala’s broad, encroaching back.  
  
His hands reached the front of the Vala’s robes, and with nimble fingers, Mairon began plucking at the clasps. He could feel the swelling of Melkor’s lungs under his hands as strong as he could hear the hissing of their mingled breaths.   
  
Melkor grabbed him behind the neck, one arm now plunging between Mairon’s robes.  And –  
  
“ _Fuck_.”  
  
He really did need to remember what the aim was here.  It was … it was not the sliding of the Vala’s hand … tempting as it was …  
  
Hands no longer stilted, he undid the last clasp of Melkor’s robe, and Mairon slung the heavy fabric in a pool unto the floor.   
  
Above him Melkor tipped down his head to stare.  It was a hungered, _feral_ gaze – and for the briefest second Mairon found himself near lost, as the Vala’s wide, blue-stricken eyes caught his in a wild, encompassed beat.   
  
“Remove your robe.” Melkor ordered, his voice low in a growl. The sound grated at some nerve inside Mairon, tickled at some area near the coiling heat of his groin. Mairon tried to hide the shake of his own fingers as he complied, a flush rising up his cheeks as he made good on the request.  “And keep the tunic on,” The Vala added; watching the progression, his own chest bright under the full lights of the lanterns: “You will need it for your screams.”

_Oh_.  
  
Mairon almost froze, his pride prickling hot under his arousal.  
  
“Not a problem, Master,” He bit, trying to force himself to pause: “you can always use my hair.”  
  
Regardless, the tunic stayed hung upon his shoulders, as the rest of his robes piled upon the floor.  And where usually Melkor would order him to turn around, the Vala swooped, then, and caught Mairon in another, biting kiss.   
  
Through the press Mairon looked up, hazy, after a moment, as Melkor hooked a _suspiciously_ oily hand upon his waist and smoothed him into a turn – and before Mairon knew what had happened, his hands were braced upon the bench.  
  
Melkor bent over his back to bite _hard_ into his nape. Over the skin of Mairon’s hole, now, wound a finger – probing yet slippery, it ghosted around the curling ridges of his skin.  And as though listening for that telltale _gasp_ – which stuttered out Mairon’s lips like the peppered cracks of a whip – Melkor pushed the first finger in.  
  
“Oh _shit_ , oh please…” Mairon moaned, and these notes hung _sincere_.    
  
The Vala growled, burying his face into Mairon’s back as he worked, kneading at the delicate flesh, as the Vala dropped a kiss that turned into a _sucking_ welt between the stickiness of Mairon’s shoulder blades.  
  
Mairon arched almost without restraint.  Oh shit, oh shit, oh _shit_ –  
  
He was losing this battle: _fast_.   
  
Damn Melkor … Damn him…  
  
Mairon fought the feeling as Melkor, finally, deliciously pushed himself _in_ , driving _down_ the curl of pleasure to regain some firmness in his feet.  The Vala’s cock was large, as reminiscent as his ego, and Mairon bit back a whine as he tried to relax.  
  
“You’re not going – ah – _touch me_ , my Lord?” He found himself asking, as he clung heavier to the bench – and the question _burned_ its way out his lips. “This does not seem like a fair fight.”  
  
Yet he could feel Melkor’s smirk furling against his skin, as the Vala leaned down to his ear to growl: “Oh, Mairon … I will not have the need.”  
  
And if he had not a cock wedged up his ass in that precise moment, Mairon would have rolled his eyes.  
  
But as it were –  
  
" _Oh_!" He gasped, instead, his train of thought broken – because yes, that _was_ his prostate.  
  
_Oh, shit.  
  
_ He arched his back, tossing his braid down his shoulders in a twist of sweaty, glossing crimson hair.  
  
Mairon was panting now, the breaths rushing at his ears like the nip of a brisk eastern wind, as the air hissed its way out of the clenching of his throat.  Melkor had begun to thrust into him in wide, staccato hits – and each pump sent him plunging over the bench.  
  
_Fuck_.  
  
_No_.  He was _not_ going to lose.  He was _not_. He was -  
  
Bruising, the Vala’s hands gripped at his hips, as every thrust soon was lurching, seemed to rip out of some furied power the Vala had pent up inside.  It was almost overwhelming, were not Mairon used to the thrill – though his eyes rolled back still for long moments as he felt an ever-increasing sensation of discord.   
  
The Vala was nearing his peak. Mairon could feel the gravels of Melkor's groans as they trembled down the thin hairs across his skin, and it tasted like the harsh throb of a volcano –  
  
Oh _yes_.  
  
It would not be long now.  
  
And thank Eru, because he himself was slowly creeping ever closer to the brink.  Yet, slow, no it was not – as he was _barrelling_ – he was _careening_ towards the edge –  
  
Melkor had angled himself now, pulling Mairon's hips up to meet him, and ensuring he met the Maia's sweet spot with each and _every_ jarring thrust.  
  
His head tipping back, Mairon allowed a gratuitous moan to spill from his lips, broken, and resorting now to trying to tempt Melkor with sound.  The noise echoed around the War Room in a swallow, and rang against his ears. And as Melkor's grip tightened, the Vala answered with a breathless grunt.  
  
“ _Please_ , Master, p-please – _harder_ –”  
  
And steeling all his resolve, all his lingering vestiges of sanity – Mairon gripped his muscles and _clenched_. The effect it seemed, was immediate –  
  
Melkor’s hands slipped upon his hips, and the Vala swore, crude and rough – as with a groan Melkor’s thrusts began to stutter.   
  
Mairon repeated the motion, over and over, clenching with all his focus around Melkor’s twitching, thrusting cock –  
  
He felt a _surge_ of resolve – he was going to win this – he _was_ –  
  
It -  
  
From the other side of the room, there was a clink.    
  
A clink, that was, which made Mairon _pause_ – as the noise sounded oddly, strangely familiar –   
  
A clink that, if he were not mistaken, sounded suspiciously like a _door_ …  
  
His eyes flew open, and his head shot up.  
  
"My Lord, we are all arrived for the meetin––OH SWEET **_ERU_**!"  
  
Oh no.  
  
_… Oh **no**!    
  
_ They _had forgotten about the meeting_!  
  
_Horrified_ , Mairon wrenched up his head and glanced over in terror at the entrance.  
  
And there Gothmog stood, his arms still raised in some frozen perch upon the door hand, his face struck ashen and his mouth agape.  And behind him, Mairon could clearly see, through the continued _beating_ of Melkor’s thrusts – a sea hung full of the horrified faces of a startled legion of Orcs.  
  
Mairon blanched and tried to push himself off the table, as Melkor rocked forward once more, brushing against those throbbing bundle of nerves inside him –  
  
And for some inexplicable reason, Mairon found he could not stop himself.   
  
In the face of their entire legion and one stuttering Balrog … He did the one thing he probably should not have, considering the situation.  
  
He came.  
  
“F-f ** _uck_**!”  
  
His hips _flung_ forward in a jolt, as Melkor kept to his word. Cock bouncing, untouched, Mairon clenched, a prolific spill of seed trailing in lines upon the floor.   
  
He slammed his eyes shut – swallowed in the intensity of the wave – as his mouth stretched open, in full view of the room.  
  
And for a few moments not a reaction could be heard, as Melkor wrung every last, _milking_ drop of come out of Mairon, a groan upon his own lips.  
  
But then, the Vala stilled, and carefully, he leaned back. And from behind Mairon in a rolling beat upon his back, the Vala utter but two terrible, triumphant words:  
  
“I win.”  
  
There was silence.  
  
“Knew it.” Bolg quipped.  
  
" _I_ – _we_ – **_RECONVENE_**  – _half an hour_ –" Gothmog spluttered, his eyes wild, as he moved frantic arms to cover up his face.  
  
And in one swell fling, the Balrog tripped back over the entrance, knocking Bolg out of the way, and slammed the door with a wooden and thundered _CRUNCH_.  
  
Mairon sank upon the bench.  
  
Though Melkor, that damned, bloody _beast,_  simply – repositioned himself. And, naturally, it would seem, were it not the furthest from the truth: _kept going_.    
  
Mairon lay, open mouthed and numb across the table, as his elbows scraped with every renewed and stuttered thrust. It did not take long, this time, before Melkor was groaning all the louder – and with the toss of a head and three choice curses, the Vala came _clutched_ against Mairon’s back.  
  
They lay there, panting, for a few minutes, as Mairon slowly regained his ability to think – as the deep realizing horror of what had just taken place finally began to hit.  
  
Oh _Eru_.  
  
He was never, ever going to be able to show his face in the halls again.  
  
Not. _Ever_.  
  
And –  
  
Wait a minute …  
  
Something in the Vala’s voice, now, had made him suspicious – as something small and something terrible inside his head went and _clicked_ :  
  
"… You fucking _knew_." Mairon accused, turning to give Melkor a glare.  
  
And it was not even a question.  
  
For behind him, Melkor did not make a sound, as Mairon’s suspicions were cruelly, deeply, and truly: confirmed.  
  
_Manwë Feänor fucking **shit**!  
  
_ "Oh _fuck_ , Melkor!" Mairon groaned, sinking to the table. “ _Fuck you_.”  
  
And he dropped his head, defeated, onto the bench.  
  
"Why, Mairon …" Melkor greased, his voice rife with deep and amused satisfaction, as the Vala leaned back down to Mairon’s ear and tucked a stray piece of sodden hair behind the curve:  
  
"I believe I just _did_."


End file.
